74 THE PORTRAIT

Of doubtful talk, and a live flame
Wandering, and many a shape whose name
Not itself knoweth, and old dew,
And your own footsteps meeting you,
And all things going as they came.

* A" dpep dim wood ; and there she stands

As in that wood that day : for so
Was the still movement of her hands 30

And such the pure line's gracious flow.
And passing fair the type must seem,
Unknown the presence and the dream.

'Tis she : though of herself, alas !

Less than her shadow on the grass
Or than her image in the stream.

That day we met there, I and she

One with the other all alone ;
And we were blithe ; yet memory

Saddens those hours, as when the moon 40
Looks upon daylight. And with her
I stooped to drink the spring-water,

Athirst where other waters sprang ;

And where the echo is, she sang,—
My soul another echo there.

But when that hour my soul won strength
For words whose silence wastes and kills,

Dull raindrops smote us, and at length
Thundered the heat within the hills.

That eve I spoke those words again 50

Beside the pelted window-pane ;

And there she hearkened what I said,
With under-glances that surveyed

The empty pastures blind with rain.

Next day the memories of these things,

Like leaves through which a bird has flown.

Still vibrated with Love's warm wings ;
Till I must make them all my own